


A Welsh Correction

by Lilliburlero



Category: Henry V - Shakespeare
Genre: Anachronism, Anglo-Welsh Relations, Class Difference, Cultural Difference, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Marriage, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:21:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilliburlero/pseuds/Lilliburlero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluellen and Gower have slightly different ideas about guest/host relationships.</p><p>*</p><p>Content advisory: polyamory negotiations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Welsh Correction

‘You lie with him, don’t you?’

‘Well, of course we share―’

‘I don’t mean _bedfellows_ , Tom.  I mean you―’

‘I know what you mean.’  Recruits of more than about three days standing in his division are always already sick of hearing Gower’s Law: _never contradict, never explain and never fucking volunteer_.  He catches himself before he does all three. ‘Yes, all right.  We do.’

‘Good.’

‘ _Good_? I―but―’

‘Well, I dare say if you were to ask him, which I don’t recommend, that Father Ralph might tell you chastity is _safer_ for a man often in danger of sudden death from something with a pointy end. But it’s not very practical. Better to marry than to burn.’

‘But―I’m married to _you_ ,’ he splutters idiotically.

‘Yes Tom,’ Nan says gently, ‘I had noticed. Twelve years and four childbeds will do that to a girl. But half the year you’re not here, and it’s better you have someone to keep you warm and not burning, if you get me.  Better someone you care for, than a different camp-follower every time.’

‘I wouldn’t―I didn’t―I never―well, once or twice. After we lost―never mind. It was pretty grim actually.’

‘I don’t want to know.  But you don’t now, do you?  Now that you have―’

‘No.’

‘As I said, good.  He’s very sweet.  Handsome, almost.  I approve.’

*  
It is Llewelyn who proves difficult to convince.  Nan tactfully risks death of a chill by going to Mass every other day and marketing every Wednesday in the late November mirk.  Llewelyn allows Gower to sit with his arms about him and his head on his shoulder, but if he ventures as much as a kiss his body tenses and his light melodious voice tightens to a thin scrannel.

‘It is not _my_ office to guard your wife’s honour, Thomas.’

‘This is perfectly ridiculous, you know.  You never minded in France.  You were all over me then.’

‘France is France and Kent is Kent.’

‘I was married to Nan when we were in France too, and I never pretended I wasn’t.’

‘I was not Mistress Gower’s guest in France.’

‘Oh, Christ, this isn’t a frigging _Welsh_ thing, is it?’

‘If you mean by that uncouth expression that I cleave somewhat to the ancient customs of hospitality held sacred by my ancestors―men of generosity, honour and birth―which were taught me in earliest childhood in my native land from which I am by circumstance exiled and for which I daily long, yes, it’s a _frigging Welsh thing_.’

Gower knows about _hiraeth_ , that it’s real, that there’s nothing he can do, however warm his kisses or friendly his thighs, though he thinks kisses and thighs would help a bit and Llewelyn would be glad of them if he'd just unbend, but the mention of _birth_ stings.  It takes all the resources of his phlegmatic nature to ignore it. 

‘You know she _knows_ , don’t you? And approves? She likes you. I wouldn’t be surprised if she―’

‘I know no such thing.’

‘Griff, sweeting, she doesn’t wear out that poor wheezy swaybacked jennet for the good of its health or her soul.  She was a _Mass on Sundays, confession once a month and communion at Easter_ sort of person, like me, before you arrived―that dunderheaded priest thinks she’s had a road to Damascus, but I didn’t think you’d need telling―’

‘I’m afraid I do, and not by you either.’

‘ _Wha―at_?’

‘If Mistress Gower consents to give me the freedom of her household and its inmates I am honour-bound to accept it, in fact.  But it must come from her lips.’

‘Oh Christ’s withered bollocks. Gruffydd ap Llewelyn ap Catrin ferch Gruffydd ap Llewelyn ap Gwillym ap Hywel ap Einon Fychan, you are _impossible_.’ 

‘You left out Dafydd.  Before the second Llewelyn, or after, depending on how you see it.  Anyway, those are my terms. Parley _over_.’  His voice grows soft, ragged.  ‘Don’t think I don’t _want_ you, Tom.  Jesu.’  

Llewelyn shifts his chunky hams on the hard settle and Gower nearly groans aloud with desire.  He knows he must, or burst, but he can’t see any way clear to ask Nan to say something as appallingly shy-making (even if it were somehow to be couched in some fair-spoken formula phrase) as _I know you fuck my husband in muddy camps and fetid inns and because we both love him I really don’t mind a bit if you do it under my roof too_. To a _guest_ , of all people. It’s probably daft, when it would make all three of them much happier, but it’s an English thing.

**Author's Note:**

> The headcanon notion is that after Agincourt, Fluellen sometimes stays with the Gowers when he and Gower are not on campaign. No 'historical accuracy' is intended; just a bit of play on Celtic vs Saxon notions of hospitality and disclosure. I believe Welsh legal codices do have something to say about husbands bringing lovers into the marital home ( _Journal of I Read It Somewhere Studies_ ) but that mostly has to do with when it's acceptable to kill them.


End file.
